


Facts and Figures of the United States

by mumblybee



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-08-25
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:40:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblybee/pseuds/mumblybee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of short stories written about the Freelancers, originally posted on tumblr, that either don't feel complete enough to post by themselves or just do not have a home in a larger story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Good Guys [North and York]

       They stay there in armor processing for a while, and North says maybe they should watch a movie tonight, use somebody’s helmet as a projector like they did that one time with Wash and South and (somehow) CT until Carolina came along and told them to stop slacking off, and then South had argued with her for a while and then, inevitably, the board got brought up and CT stormed off and South and Carolina kept at it so York had put on headphones and Wash had picked up a manual and North had turned the movie off.

            It hadn’t been a very good movie anyway.

            “We’ll invite Carolina this time,” says North jokingly, but it’s halfhearted. He keeps looking at York’s bad eye. York looks at it too, in the reflection of the glass, tracing the way the scar splits right through. And for the first time since it happened, it occurs to him that _it’s not fair_. He was just trying to help.

            “She could prob’ly use a movie night,” York agrees, offering a half-smile, and North grins back and for a minute it’s like old times.

 And then he sees the shattered helmet visor again, sitting face up where he’d tossed it. He looks back at the board, at Carolina in his old spot, and he doesn’t care about the numbers but she will.

“C’mon,” says North, clapping a hand on York’s shoulder and looking closely at him like he does to South when she’s being all sullen and taciturn. Maybe he sees the funny expression on York’s face – worry doesn’t belong there, really; he doesn’t quite know how to wear it.

 “They’re gonna come in here and bitch at us if we hang around any longer,” North says.

“Right.” York walks slower than usual, steps heavier.

              “You all right, man?” asks North as they head back toward the room. His tone is a touch of awkwardness combined with the overflow of South-related anxiety. “I mean, you’re not supposed to even be out here.”

            “What, the eye?” says York, tapping at the newly scarred flesh above it experimentally. “It’s cool. I’m fine. Just tired.”

            “All right,” says North doubtfully, and then the talk turns to the new Warthog model that just came out, and how good’s the turret and what kinda horsepower does it have and d’you think you could do jumps in that thing, like off of a ramp or something? York says he’s pretty sure because he drove one today and it seemed pretty flexible.

            North almost stops short. “They let you _drive?_ ” he protests. “With one good eye?”

            “I mean, it was kinda a last resort thing,” York replies with a shrug.

            “ _York_.”

            “What? C’mon, man, at least I’m not using my armor enhancement out in the field with no back up. You’d have to be _nuts_ to do that.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” North sighs as they reach their door. “Point taken.”

            York follows him into the room, and he sorta just wants to sit down and not think very much for a while, but he can tell North’s not feeling too great so he says, “What about you? You all right?”

            “Yeah,” says North, turning to look through his movie collection. “Fine.” He’s got his helmet tucked under one arm; they’re not supposed to have them in their rooms but they’re not supposed to have movies either, probably. Or comic books. North’s got a stack of them next to his bed, obscuring York’s haphazard collection of field manuals.

            “We could watch _Captain America_ ,” North suggests, and York shrugs, picking up one of the comic books.

            “How come all your movies are so old?” he asks. Superman looks up at him from a  worn and slightly yellowed page, speaking in those antiquated white word bubbles.

  _Believe me when I say I wish that violence wasn’t necessary._

“Classics never go out of style,” says North with a smile.

“I guess.” York sits down on his bed, tipping his head to get a better look at the comic.

_But violence is the price we pay to accomplish a greater good_.

“Well, you pick something, then.”  

York doesn’t respond for a minute, till he feels North gazing at him critically again. “Sorry, what?”

“You sure you’re feeling okay?”

 “I’m fine, man. Just reading.”

_As heroes, we choose to protect that good with our lives._


	2. Burning Bright [Sigma, Maine, Wash, York, Carolina, Epsilon]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day York carries a cat into Maine and Wash's room.

One day York carries a cat into Maine and Wash’s room. It’s scrawny and scruffed up and purring pretty loud, like a miniature Warthog motor. Maine watches as York hands it to Wash, who takes it on reflex because that’s what you do when York hands you something, even if it might be a bomb.

            The cat is not a bomb. Wash had been hunched over reading a moment before (he reads all the manuals and then he explains them to Maine because Maine didn’t like to read things before and Sigma makes it even worse now). But now he is sitting straight up, and though the blue Epsilon-light is rolling over his shoulders, Wash’s eyes are clear and his voice is solid as he informs York, “This is against protocol.”

            York shrugs and Delta, glowing quiet-green, rises and falls with his shoulders. “He jumped into the Falcon. Figured he deserves some respect for that.” He reaches over and scratches the cat behind the ears.

            Maine watches as Sigma takes the cat’s curved tail and turns the image into spirals that loop endlessly in on themselves, and whispers weird almost-words, things-that-try-to-be-words, and they loop endlessly too. (Later, Sigma gets a better handle on words. Sigma is the one who carves, “WE ARE THE META.” Sigma knows Greek so he thinks it’s funny, but nobody else really gets the joke.)

Suddenly Maine feels lonely. There aren’t enough people in the room. (Almost, Sigma corrects, there are almost enough, but they don’t have all the pieces yet for the fourth. And Maine doesn’t answer because he doesn’t really get it; he just knows that Sigma likes to put things together.) York is still there, responding mildly as Wash tries to argue with him and the cat curls up in Wash’s lap and Wash’s voice sort of falls flat as his hands go stroking across gray-striped fur. Epsilon flickers a little.

“You can keep him in here, if you guys want,” York says. “North helped me make a litterbox.” He doesn’t look at Maine, just Wash, because everyone’s looking at Wash lately, because Wash lately is weird and doesn’t make sense when he talks and Wash never doesn’t make sense when he talks. Wash explains the manuals.

“Cats,” says Epsilon suddenly, musingly. Maine waits for the torrent of words-wrapped-around-words that is supposed to come now, but Epsilon stays quiet. Sigma does not; Sigma lists other words for ‘cat’ and then says, _Tiger_ , and then _, burning bright._ And then he is making up words again and Maine can barely hear Wash, who is talking back to Epsilon and sounding kind of desperate like he does when a mission’s going bad.

“What, did you have one?” Wash asks.

“Cats,” replies Epsilon. “No. There were never any cats.”

Wash looks stunned by the resulting silence and York smiles like he’s won something. York is always winning things. Except he lost his eye, but Maine’s pretty sure that was just Tex. Everybody lost something to Tex. Like their numbers, on the board. Sigma doesn’t always know what to do with numbers, so sometimes Maine just counts things. Now he counts the footsteps coming down the hall toward the door to his room.

“York,” says a voice when the footsteps stop and Maine has to find another thing to count. The voice is Carolina, he thinks, but it’s hard to hear through the fuzziness of Sigma stacking sounds on top of sounds, because he’s making up a song, or something. “York, where is it? I _told_ you, you can’t keep animals on the ship.”

York looks at Wash, who’s petting the cat with a look of confused wonder on his face, and then he reluctantly steps outside the door and then Sigma gets curious so he goes a little quiet, and Maine listens as Carolina starts to argue with him. York never really argues back to anybody.

“If the Director finds out, you’ll –”

 “Carolina,” says York steadily. “Come look at him.”

Maine doesn’t see what looking at the cat is going to do. Carolina doesn’t get ruffled by normal girl stuff like cute animals, and besides the cat looks ugly and mangy anyway. But when Carolina comes into the room and looks at Wash petting the cat, the angry lines on her face kind of relax.

“Pet therapy,” says York, quietly. And Sigma is inspired again. Maine listens as he begins to invent new animals.


	3. Basic Philosophy [Wash, York, Carolina]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash mopes while York attempts to explain philosophy. Also, toy cars.

   York wandered into the open doorway of his room to find Wash sitting on the floor with his back shoved up against the frame of North’s bed. Wash showed up like that a lot; he had a tendency to abandon his own room in times of stress (like after an argument with Connie, or a bad training session). His head was bowed a little, chin pointed downward, and he was turning something small and shining over and over and over in his hands.

            “You can sit on the bed, y’know,” said York mildly when Wash didn’t appear to notice him.

            Wash’s head jerked upward and he blinked. “There’re comics all over it.” He waved a hand at the brightly colored superheroes scattered across North’s mattress.

            York shrugged and ambled over, dropping down beside Wash. “You could sit on _my_ bed.”

            “I like the floor,” said Wash stubbornly, one hand still fiddling with what was, upon closer inspection, a metal toy car.

            “Right.” York nodded. “The floor’s great. Nice and cold and comfortable.” He grinned and shifted against the hard metal, tossing a thumbs up at Wash. “So whatchya got?”

            “Nothing,” said Wash, closing it from view in his fist.

            “Hmm,” said York. “ _Looks_ like something. I mean unless you’re talking like, philosophically, you know?”

            Wash did not know, apparently, because he was looking at York like he’d gone a little bit insane.

            “Like, everything is nothing, so all things are one,” York explained, gesturing vaguely. “And that One Thing is…not a thing. So nothing is anything. Ever. Basic philosophy, man.”

            “I – _what?_ It’s – no, it’s a _car_ ,” said Wash, uncurling his fist to show York. The miniature sports car sat sort of sadly in his palm, wearing a patchy coat of silver paint. “My dad gave it to me when I was a kid.”   

            “Oh,” said York. “I guess that’s cool too.” He held out a hand and Wash grudgingly tipped the car into his palm. “Thanks, man,” York said, and proceeded to test it out on the floor, pushing it back and forth with one finger and listening to the tiny rattle of the plastic wheels.

            “I’ve had it since I was six,” Wash muttered, speaking with great reluctance, as though someone were physically threatening him to divulge childhood information. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever kept that long.”

            “It drives nice,” York offered, then added, “ _Vroooooooom,_ ” as he drove the car up the bedframe.

            “…Thanks,” said Wash, and York grinned at the small admission of amusement in his tone.

            “C’mon, I bet we could build some awesome ramps in the common room,” York said, getting to his feet.

            Wash hesitated, then followed. “We could use books,” he suggested tentatively as they headed down the hall.

            “Uh-huh,” York nodded. “And Maine’s helmet.” He knew how Wash liked throwing stuff at Maine’s helmet.

 

*

            Twenty minutes later Carolina found them amidst a pile of artfully stacked books, five overturned helmets (Maine, North, and Connie had donated), and a strategically dismantled shelving unit. The car had just landed with a _clank_ from one of the book-ramps into North’s helmet.

            Carolina, hands on her hips, stared from York (who grinned innocently back) to Wash (who affected an expression of great solemnity that was slightly ruined by his flushed face).

            “ _How. Old. Are you,_ ” she demanded in a low, dangerous voice.

            “Six,” said York promptly, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Wash smile.


	4. Pictures [Epsilon, Wash, Tex]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pictures, pictures David, David, let me show you pictures

   _I loved her_ , whispers Epsilon as Wash watches Tex move – quick and hard and unstoppable – on the training room floor. A group of soldiers, lower-ranked, have made the mistake of agreeing to train with her. She fights heavier than Carolina, with more force than necessary, like all these soldiers are just one big door she’s trying to beat down. Wash loses track of her motion; his vision blurs and she’s just a shadow –

            _Nonononono she’s real I **loved** her I remember she’s **real**_

            – and he starts to feel dizzy and sick to his stomach because in his head there are

            _pictures, pictures David, David, let me show you pictures_

            “No,” mumbles Wash, running his hands through his hair in agitation. He tries to focus on the fight but Epsilon is throwing up tattered bits of photographs, slowly forming a woman’s face –

            _look let me show you I remember she smiled sometimes she used to smile sometimes, David_

“Wash,” he corrects. “Don’t call me…” He’s cut off by the lurch of his stomach as he watches Tex take a misstep –

              _she was smiling when she died **I remember** she was smiling_

            – but she’s back up again in no time at all and Wash is relieved, he was worried, because she smiled sometimes and he loved it when she smiled, he wants to see her smile again, because he lov—no, no, no, that isn’t, that’s not…that’s not right…

            _David look let me show you_

            “No,” he says, and the room’s shifting beneath his feet, he’s the one taking missteps now – his knees hit metal and Epsilon is happy to have brought him down, happy to have his full attention now. He says, _let me show you pictures,_ and again Wash says, “No,” but the pictures come anyway and Wash can’t see anything else but her, can’t hear anything but Epsilon, murmuring,

            _I remember, I remember the blood ran from her mouth while she smiled_


	5. Side Effects [Delta, Epsilon, York, Wash]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> side-effects of AI integration are temporary, and include dizziness and moderate to severe confusion....

York is pouring coffee, again, or maybe for the first time today but it feels like he just had some a minute ago. Minutes and hours are getting all mixed up now, have been since the AI integration, which was – a day ago? He frowns but pours his coffee with a steady hand, and the clock on the coffeemaker says two but it could be afternoon or it could be morning. When time collapses it falls thick and full of debris, clouting him across the skull but not quite shaking him; he doesn’t need any help with that, really, not with Delta here murmuring

            _three-point-four percent chance of sleep within the next four to five hours if caffeine consumption continues at a consistent rate_

And York grips the handle of his coffee mug tight and he shakes his head, slowly, not like he wants to dislodge the guy but just because – because he

            _I apologize, Agent New York; I am_

because he’s just

            **_confused._**

But it’s okay because everyone is, right now, and

            _side-effects of AI integration are temporary, and include dizziness and moderate to severe confusion_

            and it’s only temporary so it’s going to be okay, or at least it – it’s sort of going to –

            “York?”

            He turns and forgets that he’s standing up and almost trips. Wash is there, looking questioning and slightly ill, shoulders dipping under the immeasurable weight of a fading blue light.

            _Epsilon,_ says Delta.

            “Wash,” York corrects. Wash has lost a lot of sleep and a lot of whatever confidence he’d had and he doesn’t need to lose his name too.

 

            _I apologize, Agent New York. I am –_

            “It’s okay.”

            “What?” says Wash.

            _I suggest lowering your caffeine intake_ , Delta says. _Your sleeping patterns are alarmingly irregular._

            “I don’t mind them,” York says, and forgets he’s saying it out loud until Wash looks at him funny, and York pours more coffee because even though he doesn’t remember drinking anything he’s almost done with this cup.

            “Why are you awake?” asks Wash, and now he knows it’s morning.

            “Same reason you are, prob’ly.” York shrugs, smiles, because _side effects are temporary_ and it’s going to be okay, but it’s going to take a while. Wash nods and sits down on the couch, and after a while York follows him over, and together they stare at the wall and York wonders if it’s blurring and shaking for Wash the way it is for him.

            “Side effects,” sighs Wash, dismissive and lamenting at the same time, the way some other guy might say _women_.

            “Yeah.”

            They get quiet but then Delta emerges, a soft green glow stepping diffidently into the air at York’s shoulder. His good side. That’s nice of him.

            “Agent New York, I am concerned.”

            And so is York, because he feels suddenly nauseous and also like his skull’s on fire and is this what’s supposed to happen?

            “Side effects are temporary,” says Delta, and slowly everything subsides, and then York nods.

“So I’ve heard. What’s got you all concerned, then?”

“Lack of sleep leads to degradation of the senses,” Delta explains. “It will make integration more difficult.”

“No, man, it’s okay. I always do this,” York tells him. “Right Wash?” He looks over for back up but Wash’s eyes are closed and his arms are sort of half-folded, half-holding himself together and he looks all boarded up, like he’s trying to ward something off. “Wash.”

“Yeah…sorry,” Wash mumbles a few seconds late, eyes opening in shades of dulled-down blueish gray. He runs his hands through his hair, one following the other, dragging up from the roots until it looks like he’s spiked it on purpose. “Be quiet,” he mumbles. “Just…calm down.”

“Epsilon,” says Delta again, and Wash looks at him sharply, then loses focus.  York reaches for his coffee mug and misses by a couple of inches and gives up because D’s saying

            “It is inadvisable to consume any more caffeine –”

            and also

            “Epsilon, stop, stop –”

            Or maybe that’s Wash – yeah, that’s Wash, except it doesn’t sound much like him; his voice sounds like it’s gonna split and crack.

            “Hey, man,” York says, shoving into Wash a little with his shoulder. Like in a we’re-friends sort of way.

            “He’s loud,” Wash mutters. “He gets really loud, sometimes. Does Delta get loud?”

            York considers, and Delta looks at them and somehow manages to convey through the tilt of his head that he is still _concerned_. “D’s okay,” York says. “He just…he knows a lotta numbers, dontchya, D?”

            “Yes. It is my function to know numbers,” D replies.

            “Uh-huh. So what’s Epsilon’s function, then?” York asks, because here comes the dizziness again and he’s gotta stay distracted.

            “I do not know,” says D.

            “He remembers things,” says Wash, unexpectedly, through grit teeth. His head is tipped to one side like he’s listening.

            “Remembers things,” repeats York, closing his good eye. It’s easier that way; nothing can shiver and change shape; nothing can surprise him. “What, like, dates?”

            “No, like –”

            And then there’s a whole stream of words that aren’t Wash at all, and York opens his eye halfway to see a blue blur at Wash’s shoulder. Epsilon is muttering, and York can only barely make out the words.

            “April second she was born and on her birthday we went to see the sharks at the aquarium by her house and she liked their teeth the way they stuck out over their mouths and I bought her a stuffed shark that was storm-cloud gray and the storm followed us the whole way home –”

            Wash shakes his head vigorously all of the sudden and Epsilon’s blue glow flickers and fades and he goes quiet.

“Like that,” Wash says dryly.

            “Is that normal?” says York, closing his eyes again because Wash’s face is blurring too much.

            “No,” says D, at the same time that Wash says, “I don’t know.”

            “Epsilon is having difficulties with the integration process,” Delta calmly elaborates.

            “Oh,” Wash says, and then he goes quiet too and York wonders if he’s hearing things in his head. Because D’s got this endless stream of numbers going and York can barely feel himself think.

            “I apologize, Agent New York,” Delta tells him, for the second or third or fiftieth time now. “I am trying to make this easier for us both.”

            “It’s okay,” York replies, dropping his head to his hands – it hurts. “It’s fine.”


	6. The Mysterious Case of the Banana-Scented Spaceship [York, Connie, Carolina, South, North, Wash, Maine]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I should probably break up this angst fest with a little humor.

**_The Mother of Invention_ **

**_Dormitories_ **

**_Room A_ **

**_4:45am_ **

            Connie woke up to the overpowering smell of bananas. This was not a scent she was used to associating with spaceships, so she felt a little out of sorts as she sat up on her elbows, blinking blearily at the neatly empty bed across the room. Carolina always made hers before she left in the mornings for training, tucking the blankets in and lining up all the right corners. Connie always left hers rumpled, partially because she didn’t care and partially out of a vague hope of annoying Carolina. (She never seemed to notice, to Connie’s disappointment.) She stretched now, yawning and pushing at the hair covering half of her face. Her part was all screwed up now from Wash trying to make it symmetrical and she frowned, tugging at a few stray strands as her feet hit the floor.

            As soon as she opened the door the banana-smell saturated the room, and she actually stopped in her tracks in surprise. She thought about the last time she had smelled bananas. You didn’t get a lot of fresh fruit out in space. You got dehydrated fruit, chewy strips of what supposedly used to be fresh fruit. The last time she’d had a banana had been…before she even _enlisted_ , probably. Years.

            She made her way slowly down the hall, following the bananas, and wondered if this was a dream.

——

**_Fifteen Minutes Earlier_ **

**_“The Coffee Room”_ **

——

            There wasn’t a kitchen on the Mother of Invention. Or at least there wasn’t a kitchen that was easily accessible to the Freelancers, and York was on a time limit today so he didn’t really want to deal with breaking into the kitchen again. Besides, last time the Director found out and told him he had to follow proper dietary protocol and for a week all he got on his tray was broccoli.

            So, York had decided that the coffee area was as good a place as any for this project. Making coffee was sort of like cooking, right? It had to count on…on some sort of level. Plus he’d already moved the crate of bananas there, so.

            “Whatever works, right?” said York to nobody in particular, since it was four-thirty in the morning and nobody else in their right mind was awake yet. Carolina would be up in about a half hour to go running, unless she was having trouble sleeping and then she would be up in about twenty-two minutes. Unless she’d stayed up late going over mission logs last night, and then she would be up in about forty-three minutes.

            York shrugged and began to set up his portable pancake griddle.

——

**_Ten Minutes Later_ **

**_The Common Room Couch_ **

——

            Carolina ran a hand through her hair and sighed. She was not following her normal sleeping patterns. In fact she was not following any sleeping pattern at all tonight. Sometimes this happened; sometimes she got so drawn into the mission logs, analyzing what had been done well and what needed to be done better, that she forgot about things like sleeping. Usually then York would wander into the room and start giving her his opinion about the mission logs, which was usually, “Whatever man, the past is in the past. I learned that from The Lion King.” At which point she would give up on getting any work done at all and just listen to York babble until she felt like sleeping.

            But York was mysteriously nowhere to be found tonight…this morning…whatever it was now. It’s not like you got sunlight streaming in through the windows to wake you up, or…or…

            Bananas?

            Carolina sat up a little, sniffing the air. She blinked twice, which was the extent of her expression of puzzlement, then stood up and strode toward the coffee room.

  ——

**_Five Minutes Later_ **

**_The Dormitories_ **

**_Room C_ **

——

            Wash stirred sleepily in his bed, rolling over to find Maine blinking back at him with the same confusion, although that was a look Maine wore often so Wash couldn’t tell if it was relevant to the current situation or if that was just Maine’s face.

            “Do you smell bananas?” mumbled Wash.

            “Grrrr, rrrr,” said Maine.

            “I hate bananas,” Wash said sadly, and then fell back asleep.

——

**_Meanwhile, in Room D_ **

——

            North slept peacefully in his bed, surrounded by Captain America comics. He dreamed of superheroes eating banana muffins.

——

**_Back to 4:45am_ **

**_and_ **

**_“The Coffee Room”_ **

——

            “York.”

            “Oh hey, Carolina,” he said, beaming and waving his spatula in greeting. “You’ll never guess what I’m mak –”

            “Banana pancakes,” said Carolina flatly.

            “Yeah man, how’d you know?” asked York.

            Before Carolina could respond, Connie came trudging drowsily toward the doorway. “What are you _doing?_ ” she grumbled in York’s direction.

            “Making pancakes,” said York proudly, and then added, “for everyone!” Because he didn’t want her to feel left out because he knew Connie felt left out a lot.

            “Why is he doing this,” Connie muttered at Carolina, who shrugged and sighed.

            “I don’t know.”

            “Because when’s the last time you had banana pancakes!” York declared.

            The two women stared blankly back at him.

            “Exactly,” said York. “We all could use more banana pancakes in our lives.”

            There was a pause, and then, “Wash hates bananas,” said Connie.

            “With the exception of Wash, we all could use more banana pancakes in our lives,” York corrected himself.

            “Did you say you’re making pancakes?” South called from out in the hall.

            “Why are you awake,” Carolina snapped at her. Carolina snapped at people a lot in the morning. York had found that out pretty quick.

            “I just want to know if there’re pancakes,” South said grumpily.

            “There are pancakes,” said Connie. “I don’t know why. But there are.”

            “I mean when’s the last time you had _bananas_ , even,” York went on. “By the way, I got the bananas from Space Amazon.”

            “Nobody cares,” said Connie, South, and Carolina all at once.

——

**_Ten Minutes Later_ **

**_The Common Room Couch_ **

——

            York, Carolina, Connie, and South sat together on the couch, each of them with a piled-high plate of pancakes. York had insisted that they each eat at least four.

            “Why am I awake,” Connie mumbled between bites.

            Carolina said nothing and eyed the pile of mission logs she had yet to review as she chewed.

            “These’re good, York,” said South, and then everyone looked at her in surprise because she never gave compliments. Ever. She seemed to realize this quickly and added, “I mean, I’m half-asleep so maybe they’re horrible, I don’t know.”

            “Thanks,” said York happily. “Tomorrow I think I’m gonna make waffles.”

            Carolina set down her fork sharply and began to inform York exactly why he was not allowed to make waffles tomorrow, while he began to list the various attributes of waffles (fluffy, warm, golden-delicious), and South and Connie continued to eat and ignore each other.

            It was just like a family.    


	7. Other Side [CT, Wash]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She is the worst of the military’s best soldiers, but she’s the only one who sees – who feels – that something is wrong.

CT tries to kid herself, to pretend betrayal is something she’s just slipped into like a bad habit – something she hadn’t really meant. But it’s such a clear, conscious choice that sometimes she can see herself telling the story to a hypothetical documentary-maker ( _How the Project Fell: An Exclusive Look at One of the Military’s Most Corrupt Programs_ ). One day she pauses on the way to breakfast, looks at the board and _her_ name’s not there but _his_ is moving _up_ , up, and away – shifting into numbers now, following a steady line. And ten minutes later she’s sitting elbow-to-elbow with Numbers One through Six, contemplating treachery over eggs and toast.

            She is the worst of the military’s best soldiers, but she’s the only one who _sees_ – who _feels_ – that something is wrong. So maybe, she thinks, she’s better than them after all.

            Sometimes she feels Wash’s stare on the back of her head when she walks past him in the hallway instead of saying hi, and she imagines him asking her why she did it.

            She’ll never tell him it’s because his name kept rising from her reach, or because she was tired of always being left in the dust. She won’t even tell him it’s because she couldn’t handle watching all of them go on breaking their backs for a man poisoned by power. Though all of these things are true.

            If he asks, she’ll answer him without any of those bitter emotions that so frequently rise up her throat, prickling at the back of her neck. She’ll look him in the eye, cool and composed, and she’ll tell him it’s not personal. She’s just better on the other side.


	8. Standard Allotted Recreation Nights [Wash, York, Carolina]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash develops only child syndrome when York and Carolina begin spending more time together.

This was not how Standard Allotted Recreation Nights were supposed to go, Wash reflected, sitting dejectedly on the couch in the rec room. Sitting dejectedly on the couch was definitely not anywhere in the Standard Allotted Recreation Night Enjoyment Field Manual. Neither was gloomily rolling a pool ball back and forth across the floor with your sneaker, but Wash didn’t have much choice in the matter. North, Maine, and South were off somewhere on a mission (probably somewhere _important_ and _exciting_ ), Connie had recently been beaten at Go Fish by Carolina so she was who-the-hell-knew-where (really, _no one_ knew where it was she went to sulk), and Wyoming had always been supremely uninterested in both his fellow Freelancers and all things recreational.

            Which left Wash, York, and Carolina. _Again._ This wouldn’t have been so bad if York and Carolina had not recently become, well, YorkandCarolina. York had always been a dependable source of comraderie when nobody else was around – in fact he tended to force his presence upon Wash like he had some sort of Agent-Washington-Loneliness-Level-Detecting-Device built into his brain. So how was it that right now, when Wash was sending out veritable _waves_ of soul-crushing loneliness, York was ignoring him?

            “It’s not fair,” Wash blurted out finally, so quick and quiet that York, sitting just to his left, didn’t appear to notice. Though saying it louder might not have had much of a result either; York seemed to be utterly _gone_. He had an arm draped across Carolina’s shoulders, and they were both uncharacteristically quiet, occasionally gazing at each other in that horrible new-couple sort of way that made Wash want to throw something at the wall. It was Rec Night, after all, and throwing things (darts, tennis balls, pool sticks, helmets) at the walls was sort of the point.  

            “York,” said Carolina suddenly, drawing his name out like she was testing it. Wash sighed quietly, waiting for some horrible sappiness.

            “Yeah?” said York, sounding dazed and dreamy. What was he, _fourteen?_

            “I’m done,” she told him.

          York blinked at her. “…What?”       




            “I’ve indulged the starry-eyed romantic crap long enough,” Carolina declared, shrugging out from under his arm. Both Wash and York stared at her with – respectively – gratitude and incredulity. She ignored both of them and stood up, hands on her hips. “Are we going to play darts or what?”

            “Oh,” said York, shaking his head a little as if to rid himself of his disorientation. “Oh, right, um, I’ll…I’ll go get the…darts. Yeah.” He stood up and stumbled off in the direction of the supply closet.

            Carolina checked to make sure he was out of earshot, then turned to Wash. “You’re welcome,” she said coolly.


	9. Belief [Carolina, York]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A person can't run on pure belief.

“There’s something wrong with him,” York says quietly. Carolina shakes her head slowly back and forth, trying to balance out the weight of the AI. They haven’t manifested but they’re talking, bickering, senseless arguments interrupted every now and then by _Alpha, Alpha, Alpha_.

            “He gave us everything,” she mutters, a tired refrain that ends tonight with her head in her hands as she sits at the edge of her bed.

            “You keep saying that.” York paces in front of her and his voice is too loud, too harsh when he asks, “ _What?_ What did he give us?”

            A chance, Carolina thinks through the haze of the AI’s voices. A way to succeed. A place to belong.

            York sits back down beside her and covers her shoulders with his arm. “He didn’t give you anything you couldn’t take for yourself,” he says, his voice low and angry.

            He thinks she can take whatever she likes; he thinks she’s a superhero. He’s thought this for a long time and it’s her fault for never correcting him, for letting him believe in her. She lifts her head and says, dimly, “You have to stop.”

            He blinks. “Stop what?”

            “You think I can do anything.”

            York’s half-gaze softens and he squeezes her shoulder. “You _can_ do anything.”

            She watches him for a moment, wishes she could let him believe a little longer.

             “No,” she mumbles. “I can’t do this.”


	10. A darkness that was always there, which we never noticed [CT, York, everyone]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title/quote is from Robert Bly's poem "Snowfall in the Afternoon."

CT has already changed sides by the time the implantation process hobbles them.

            She watches as they begin to circle each other like injured animals, wounded and limping and wary of every other living thing. She knows – from Wash’s fevered murmurs through the night, South’s seething silence, North’s retreat into himself, the little hiccups that begin to arise in Carolina’s training sessions – she _knows_ that each of them is hurting uniquely. But from the outside (where she must learn to live, where she must learn not to feel anymore) they all start to look the same.

             Except, of course, for York; the only one of them who has always effortlessly – often, CT thinks, _accidentally –_ been an exception to the rules. Even as the rest begin to fall, he remains standing. Bewildered and starting (in his slow, calm, York-way) to panic, but standing nonetheless.

            CT doesn’t offer any help, wouldn’t even if she could. She stays on the outside; there is no doubt anymore that she belongs there. ( _There_ , where it is safe, where she does not have to feel the pain of belonging to something broken.) She watches York try to knit them back together, to reform that seamless teamwork he’s so obviously craving. She listens as he speaks to South in a low but fierce voice that she’s never heard from him before, a _berating_ voice, speaking of family and responsibilities. She watches as South storms off angrier than before.

            (And maybe this is what CT is best at – waiting, and watching, and listening – and maybe this is why she must betray them.)

            York never notices her, even as she lingers at the edges of his attempts to patch together something that was never whole to begin with. Or maybe he notices and just doesn’t say anything because he’s too busy running around from room to room, trying to wake everybody up, to un-hobble them. During the day he drags a despondent Wash around like a kid brother, and CT follows, toeing cautiously at the border that keeps her now from being one of them.

            (She thinks of crossing it only once, when she hears Wash shout from the pain of whatever’s inside of his head – but then she comprehends the syllables he’s shouting, and retreats.)

            And in the evenings York sits with Carolina in the common room and holds onto her as though he could imbue her with his own sense of gravity, reset her balance by sacrificing his own. CT doesn’t watch this part really, doesn’t want to hear his desperate whispers and can’t help hearing them later anyway, reverberating through her when she’s trying to sleep.

            _It’s gonna be okay, ‘Lina, all of it, every goddamn drop of it, it’s gonna all be okay._

            But Carolina loses confidence fast, and they all watch it dripping away like blood ( _every goddamn drop_ ). She gets paler. She looks worn, crumpled at the edges. It’s not long before York starts to look as lost as the rest of them. It’s not long before he stops suggesting movie nights, stops trying to get them all together for mealtimes, stops whispering words of comfort in the dark.

            It’s not long, either, before they take Carolina away. And York stops talking at all.

            Somehow CT had assumed it would feel _good_ to see the mighty fall, corrupt and wrongly-crowned as she has always believed. But all she feels is sick.

And _this_ is why – this is why she has to go.


	11. What it Takes [South, York]

Her brother’s just left the common room, easing himself wearily from the couch after another argument, when York grabs her by the shoulder and says, “You’ve gotta stop doing this to him.”

            South looks up at him dispassionately, her eyes tracing the scar across his. “Let go of me,” she replies. Her voice is lacking in anger – it’s flat and cold, and she can tell York’s not expecting that. His grip loosens on her shoulder and she shifts backward so his hand falls.

            “He’s your brother,” York says. Like it’s a fact she’s unaware of. And she very nearly sneers at him, until he adds more quietly, “Families have to take care of each other.”

            For a split-second South just stares at York while he looks back imploringly – because he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it, he has no fucking _clue_ what it takes to be a family.

            So she stands roughly and snarls, “Why don’t you tell _him_ that,” before stalking out of the room.


	12. Clarity [Carolina/York]

York made light of most things, creating comedy in order to create clarity. And usually that worked well enough. But every now and then – more often after his eye – there were nights when he missed his brothers back home, and he missed the feeling of sitting in grass, and he missed sunny days spent out-of-armor. There were nights when everything was muddled, every star a blur. Nights when his blood ran thick and heavy and he just wanted to lie down and not move for a while.

            He didn’t like the way that felt, so instead he went to the track and ran. If he was lucky, he’d find Carolina there too. And although she was following a routine rather than trying to fulfill some weird psychological need, there was something about running together at night that made York feel like they understood each other perfectly.

             Maybe Carolina felt it too because she’d slow down to let him keep pace with her, so that he could match her stride-for-stride and breath-for-breath. It was a strange synchronization that occurred without either of them trying very hard, and it filled him with enough wonder that there was no room for that heavy confusion which had brought him to the track in the first place. He didn’t even feel like he had to talk or joke around. There wasn’t anything here that _needed_ to be turned into a joke. Jokes were to make things feel better, and there was nothing about this that felt bad. There was only the sound of their feet hitting the track, and the steady rhythm of their breathing.


	13. Fever Dreams [Carolina/York]

“Carolina.”

            He reached for her and misjudged the distance, his fingertips falling short. So she shifted forward a little in the bedside chair, remaining still and quiet as he fumbled to close his hand around hers.

            “We’ll get a big house,” York said, apropos of nothing, his voice roughened by sickness and sleeplessness. “A big house and a yard and everything.”

            Carolina was silent for a while, then looked at him with something like pity. “You’re delirious,” she said. “You have a fever. Go to sleep.”

            “In a nice neighborhood,” he went on heedlessly. “With trees.”

            She sighed at him. She did that a lot. He loved her for it, for sighing and staying there anyway.

            “York…”

            “Carolina,” he replied, just to feel the syllables on his tongue. They were familiar. Comforting. Easy to reach for when his head swam and everything ached and the world was only half-there anymore.

            “What, York?” she said, sounding slightly exasperated by this point.

            “When it’s all over,” he said, “when everything’s done, let’s…let’s get a house?”

            She studied him critically for a moment, then said calmly, “Yes, York. We’ll get a big house with a yard. And trees. Now go to _sleep._ ”

            And he did, holding onto her all the while.


	14. Calculations [Carolina/York]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> York's no good at cold math.

  “Hey,” said York, nudging at Carolina. She was curled beside him on his bed, reading a worn paperback while he sat on the edge of the mattress and double-checked floorplans. They had a mission tomorrow.

            “Mmn,” replied Carolina, looking up a bit grouchily from the book. It was one of her unicorn novels. Something about quests and chosen ones and stuff.

            “I –” York paused. _I need help_ was not something he was all that keen on saying, especially not in front of her. “Uh…yeah, so, I…”

            “What?” Carolina snapped when he faltered. “I’m on the last chapter, York.”

            He sighed. “Look, I’m shit at math. You wanna check these numbers for me?” He held out the floorplans to her, tapping at his penciled in calculations.

            Carolina just stared at him. “You’re an _infiltration specialist_ , York,” she told him slowly, as though talking to a very stupid child. “You’re supposed to be _good_ with numbers.”

            “Ye-e-ah…” York ran a hand through his hair and tried not to look too much at her. “Yeah, about that. Y’know, it’s fine when I’m there in the moment, right? Just workin’ a lock or security program or something, but cold math? No way. Give me a pencil and paper and all of the sudden I’m no good.” He attempted a careless shrug but didn’t quite succeed due to the whole _actually-caring_ thing. “Can’t be helped.”

            Carolina raised her eyebrows and considered him for a moment. Then she sighed, set down her book, and snatched the plans. York fidgeted, tapping his fingers on his knee while she studied his scrawlings.

            Finally she looked up and handed them back to him.

            “They’re fine, you idiot,” she said.

            “Oh.” York blinked. “Oh, thanks. I mean, not for calling me an idiot. Not for that. Just for the numbers-checking thing.”

            “Don’t doubt yourself next time,” Carolina sighed, and took up her unicorn book again.

            “Sure thing, boss,” said York gravely. She rolled her eyes, and he smiled.


	15. Post-Mission Nerves [Carolina/York]

It’s after a mission _almost_ gone bad and they’re both jittery from the _almost_ -loss, the _almost_ -failure, the adrenaline rush of getting that close to death. Carolina keeps touching him and mumbling things, things she should’ve done better, things York should’ve done better too, but he’s not really listening. He’s backing her nearly into the wall so he can kiss her, hard and fast and full of spilled over anxiety. She pushes back and knots her fingers in his hair, nails digging a little at his scalp and he doesn’t like this feeling-nervous-thing, doesn’t like her being nervous too. His hands rove up her back and tug at her shirt and she turns to help him, saying, “If we had gotten to the objective forty seconds sooner we wouldn’t have had to shoot those guards,” while he tries to prove to her with hands and heat and touch that _it’s okay, everything’s okay_.


	16. Fortifications [Wash/CT, contains literal fluff]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My good friend Nemonus wanted something about Wash's legs but I wrote about blanket forts.

They thieved blankets off of mattresses and snuck them from supply closets, hurrying to the common room with arms piled high.

            “Isn’t this,” started Wash, but Connie laughed him quiet before he could finish.

            “Wash, I don’t think there’s protocol for blankets,” she said, her smile just barely visible behind a quilt comforter. Her tone was light, almost gentle, and Wash found himself believing her despite the fact that he was almost certain he’d read something about not stealing blankets in the “respecting your fellow agents’ belongings” field manual. Because she was _smiling_ , and, well.

            “Maybe not,” said Wash, shrugging and nearly losing an afghan, “you never know.”

            The common room was still empty when they got there, which was both fortuitous and suspicious. Connie stood scanning the area for a moment, her eyes just barely able to see over the rumpled blankets in her arms. Wash was losing his grip on his own load but he waited dutifully, watching her blinking with a plush pink blanket covering her nose, and he tried very hard not to think of ‘Connie’ and ‘adorable’ in the same sentence. Somehow she would find out. She always found everything out. And then she might punch him.

            “All clear?” he asked.

            “Yep,” said Connie, tossing her pile onto the couch. Wash set his own down carefully on one cushion. Connie eyed this arrangement briefly, then climbed on top of the blanket-mountain. “I put the movie in already. We’re good to go.”

            Wash blinked at her. “You’re just going to…sit on them?”

            “What?”

            “The blankets. You’re not…doing anything with them?”

            “What, like a fort?” Connie shrugged. “No.”

            “But…then why did we get so _many?_ ” Wash asked, rubbing at his hair where some fleece fuzz had taken up residence.

            “Because it’s comfortable,” Connie said, raising a brow at him. “Do you _want_ a blanket fort, Wash?” she asked in a patient, teacherly voice.

            “No,” said Wash quickly.

            “Then sit down,” she told him.

            Wash sat down on his carefully-folded pile of blankets. This made him significantly higher up than Connie. He looked over at her with a doleful expression.

            “You actually want a blanket fort,” she said flatly. “Don’t you.”

            He didn’t meet her eyes. “Wellll…”

            Connie sighed and stood up, going to drag over some chairs.  Wash got up to help, explaining all the while.

            “It’s just that I thought that’s what we were _doing_ , that’s all,” he said, helping her secure one end of a comforter to a chair while she worked on the other. “I thought that’s why we were getting so _many._ ”

             “Whatever,” said Connie. It was, thought Wash, a particular type of talent to be able to look angry while constructing a blanket fort.

            He opened his mouth to apologize, but suddenly Connie froze and stared over his shoulder at something behind him. Wash turned around to meet the gaze of a similarly unamused Carolina. She was dressed for training – sneakers, sweats, a t-shirt, and a stern expression.

            “What are you doing?” she said, then paused to do a brief scan of the area before adding, “Is that my quilt?”

            “Uh,” said Wash. “We’re building a fort?”

            “A fort,” Carolina repeated, her mouth set in a thin line.

            “Yeah, a _fort_ ,” said Connie impatiently, and both Wash and Carolina turned to look at her in surprise. She had her hands on her hips and the pink fluffy blanket over her shoulder. “Can’t you see we’re at war here?”

            Carolina stared at her for a moment, and then the corners of her mouth twitched upward and she shook her head.“Just bring the quilt back in one piece,” she said as she walked from the room.

            “Not a single bullet will fray its patchwork frame,” Connie vowed solemnly, and Carolina tossed back a vague sort of salute.

            Wash was not sure whether to stare or laugh or ask if Connie was feeling okay, but then she smiled at him and he decided that what he really wanted to do was kiss her. So he took a step forward. Unfortunately his feet caught on the goddamn afghan and he tripped into a chair instead, arms flailing as he twisted backward and landed flat on his back.

            “You see, Wash,” said Connie, and he blinked up to find her kneeling over him. “This is what happens when you demand blanket forts.”

            “I didn’t _demand_ any –” started Wash, but then she leaned closer, her palms pressing down beside his shoulders, and kissed the argument right out of him. And as he reached up for her, it occurred to him that maybe he ought to start demanding things more often.


	17. Stolen Domesticity [Carolina/York]

It was time for lunch and really they should’ve been in the mess hall rather than the common room. But York felt quiet and slow and safe, drowsing here, with his back on the floor and Carolina stretched out on the couch above him. He felt like forgetting the war for a while. He could breathe in the scent of Carolina’s hair and if he closed his eyes he could imagine a house being built around them. Wooden floor boards fitting together, sprawling across the room to meet smooth, pastel-painted walls. A curtained window, a flower vase balancing on the windowsill. A welcome mat by the front door.

            He sighed a little and reached up, hand trailing over the couch cushion till he found Carolina’s wrist. She shifted slightly in her sleep and if he leaned up onto his elbows he could just see the barest curve of a smile.

            And that was it. That was the best he could hope for. Sleeping through lunchtime was the closest they would ever get to sharing lazy Sunday mornings that bled into afternoons. The nearest they’d find themselves to a driveway with a mailbox at the end. Having been soldiers, they could never quite be people again.

            But it would be nice. So York closed his eyes and let himself pretend.


	18. Latte Art [Carolina/York]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Valentine's Day Special!

“Carolina. Carolina. Guess what. Carolina. Caro—”

            “York, _what the fuck_ ,” Carolina hissed, her eyes snapping open in the dark of her room to find him standing a couple feet away from her bed. Probably because he knew she’d hit him if he got any closer. “What _time_ is it?”

            “Four-fifty-two,” said York, far too cheerfully. He turned to flick on the light switch and held up a coffee mug. “Guess what. I made you a latte.”

            Carolina sat up very quickly and York seemed to take this as a dangerous sign. He took a long step backward and held up one hand in a vague attempt at self-defense. “You better have a damn good reason for this,” she growled, raking her hair out of her face and into a halfway-decent condition.

            York, still exhibiting caution, sat down on the other side of the bed. “Well, I have a latte,” he offered. “I figured out how to make them, I was trying for like an hour to get it right but I finally did and I made you one.”

            “You did not wake me up to test out a latte,” Carolina said, swinging her legs over the side of the mattress and fixing him with her sternest glare.

            He smiled stupidly back. “You should try it,” he said, holding the mug out toward her.

            She snatched it so violently that York flinched a little and reached out to steady the mug. For a moment she just stared at the cup’s contents. “York,” she said at last in a low, dangerous tone, “ _what is this_.”

            “Latte art,” said York proudly.

            “This is a heart,” Carolina said, watching the shape slowly dissipate.

            York nodded. “Yeah, man, you can make all sorts of patterns and stuff but hearts are the easiest and plus it’s Valentine’s Day so, you know, I thought –”

            “It’s what?”

            “Valentine’s Day?”

              “Are you serious? Are you seriously being this lame?”

            York scratched his head and said, “No man, it’s called being romantic.”

            “You woke me up for this,” said Carolina, just to confirm.

            “Yes. Look, these things don’t last so I had to wake you up right away so you could see it before it disappeared because I didn’t know if I was gonna get it right next time, okay?”

            “I hate you,” Carolina mumbled into the mug, and took a sip.


	19. Closet Makeouts Are Impractical [Wash/CT]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another Valentine's Day Special!

“Ow! Wash, stop it!”

            “I’m just – trying to get us –”

            “I know, Wash, _stop_ , you’re making it _worse_.”

            Connie grimaced and squirmed away from him, her spine connecting jarringly with the wall. Wash let out a grunt as her elbow dug into his stomach. He tried to take a step backward, but only succeeded in hooking his foot around her ankle and nearly taking the both of them down. Connie grabbed the neck of his shirt for balance and glared. Not that he could see her in the dark.

            Ducking into the supply closet for a little privacy had seemed totally logical in theory. Then again, that was in the beginning stages when they’d only just begun to entangle themselves in the mess that they were in now, and logic had pretty much flown out the window. Of the _spaceship_. Logic was long-freaking-gone by the time they realized that A.) The Mother of Invention had very small supply closets, and B.) it was very easy to get trapped in one.

            Connie sighed and began to bang her forehead against Wash’s shoulder. “This – is – so – stupid,” she said, then let her head rest there.

            Wash reached out to pat her on the back but accidentally knocked over a broom instead. They both winced against each other at the clatter, and Connie had to do a little hop-step to keep it from slamming down on her toes.

             “Maybe if we turn slowly,” Wash said, “until we’re sideways, and then we can get the door ope—”

            “Shh!” Connie hissed, lifting her head a little. There were footsteps coming down the hall. Wash went dead still and she could hear his heart beating very close to her ear as they waited for the steps to pass by.

            “Okay,” said Wash slowly. “We can…just…let’s turn left on the count of three?”

            “I don’t want to count to three,” Connie snapped. “Let’s just synch.”

            “Okay,” Wash repeated, then said, “Wait, how many steps are we taking?”

            “I don’t know, three?” said Connie impatiently. “The door’s right there.”

            “Right. So…”

            There was a brief silence and then Wash said, “When are we synching?”

            “God _damn_ it, Wash!” Connie snapped, and she could _feel_ him tipping his head in her direction.

            “I just wanted to _know_ –”

            He was interrupted by a sudden, quick set of footsteps and then the unmistakable sound of the doorknob turning. And suddenly there was the dim light of the hallway made blinding now in contrast with the closet’s darkness, and Wash was flailing his arms frantically in the newfound space and his leg caught hers and she grabbed at him for balance but suddenly he was – she was – _they_ were falling. Wash landed flat on his back, Connie’s knees knocking against his as she landed on top of him, both hands gripping the collar of his shirt. She looked down at Wash’s wide-eyed, slightly panicky expression, and then she looked up to see –

            York.

            “Hey guys,” he said, offering a wave. He was grinning widely and there was some significant strain in his voice, like he was just barely holding back laughter. “Sorry to, uh, interrupt. Just needed a broom – Maine broke another coffee mug.”

            Connie scrambled to her feet, feeling her face flush, and Wash followed a little bit slower. “We were – looking for – um,” she said.

            “A broom?” said Wash, refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

            York nodded very seriously. “Uh-huh,” he said. “Right. Obviously. Oh, hey, what d’ya know. There it is.” He pushed past the two of them and grabbed said broom, flipping it handle-side down to rest against his shoulder. “Thanks, guys,” he said, and headed off down the hall again.

            “You’re welcome…?” said Wash dazedly. Connie just looked at her feet and brushed the closet-dust from her clothes.

            Halfway to the common room, York paused and called over his shoulder, “Oh, and guys? We’ve got bedrooms for that, just so ya know. For next time.” And before Connie could respond he was off again, whistling happily to himself.

            For a moment Wash and Connie just stood there. Then Wash said, tentatively, “Maybe we should try that.” And when Connie shot him a glare he added hurriedly, “Or a bigger closet.”


	20. Nem's Totally Rockin' Birthday Fic [Wash/CT]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crackfic. Dramatic reading available here: http://mumblybee.tumblr.com/post/21630944282/completelysanes-totally-rockin-birthday-fic-a

So one day Wash was sitting alone in his room…shirtless…polishing a rifle…looking very menacing and manly and sexytimes but feeling very sad and alone. Because. He was alone.  

            BUT SUDDENLY there was a knocking at the door! And SUDDENLY the door OPENED and CONNIE WAS THERE. She was all grumpy but Wash thought she looked pretty anyway so he put down the rifle and stood up.

            “Connie,” he said.

            “Wash,” said Connie.

            “Connie,” said Wash.

            Dramatic music swelled as they gazed into each other’s eyes.

            “What are you doing,” said Connie. There was no questioning tone in her voice so she did not get a question mark.

            “Polishing my rifle,” said Wash, trying to imitate York’s Smooth Jazz Voice.

            Connie raised an eyebrow. Wash wondered if he had accidentally said something that might be misconstrued as innuendo, but he didn’t want her to know that he was wondering this so he just tried to raise an eyebrow back. Except he couldn’t raise one separately. He could only raise both. So he just looked mildly concerned.

            His shirt was still off though and he still looked pretty sexytimes, so Connie shrugged and said, “Okay. I’ll leave you to it.”

            She started to leave, but Wash rushed forward to grab her by the wrist. “Connie! Wait! You can’t leave before I…”

            “Before you what, Wash?” said Connie very dramatically as the dramatic music swelled again even more dramatically, and also it was dramatic. There was some drama. Connie tossed her hair for more drama.

            “Before I declare my love for you, Connecticut!” Wash said, dropping down on one knee and bowing his head, still clutching her except by the hand now.

            Connie tossed her hair again and said, “Wash, you’re acting crazy!” She paused as he looked up at her with smoldering sexytimes eyes and then she added in a low voice, “ _I’ve never wanted you more._ ”

            “Let’s _do it_ ,” said Wash, and he swept her up into his arms, and then they made out like really hard.

**_FADE TO BLACK_ **


	21. Space Explorer [York]

God, he’s tired of spaceships.

  
He’s tired of the rush of gravity-gone, flickering artificial lights, rattling metal beneath his feet. He’s tired of having my feet encased in metal too, of carrying this fucking suit around like it matters anymore.

  
In this place, where the space suits are worth more than the people in them, he’s tired of watching stars go by and planets – god, planets. Earth, really. There’s no place like home, like home, and there are so many places but none of them have ever managed to replicate the sea-salt air and dinner-in-the-oven smell of back home. He has brothers. He had brothers. He thinks they’re still around.

  
When he was young he wanted to be a space explorer because that was cool, and that was fun, and James had never had time for anything that wasn’t fun above all else.

  
He had wanted to be a space explorer.

  
Not a murderer.

  
He’s tired of spaceships, tired of jetpacks, tired of armor, tired even of the glittering computerized locks because, well, shit, you can’t even hear them click once you’ve picked your way through. None of it’s real anymore. Everyone’s gone and none of it’s real.

  
For a while he had friends and that was all right. For a while he had Carolina, but he can’t think about her now. It’s not right, to let the place that broke her down bear witness to his grief. He doesn’t know how he worked that one out but he did, and whenever she surfaces in his mind (too much, so much) he forces her behind a wall – because if he can’t protect her anymore then he’ll protect her memory. He’ll keep her safe. He’ll take her away. He’ll remember her in some other place, one that never hurt her.

  
D has a lot to say about that, but the word “retire” comes quick to his lips these days and he never has to hear about it, all the logic he’s ignoring.  
But spaceships, man, spaceships. He used to think they were so cool. Used to think he’d fly all over the place and have adventures and shit and never be afraid. But spaceships don’t make you brave. Spaceships are gray, and quiet, and cold. And that’s no fun at all. That’s too much like death.

  
And he’s tired of that too.


End file.
